


Legacy and Pariah

by servantofclio



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4217331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from the life of Dorian Pavus, starting from childhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Fire

**Author's Note:**

> A series of snapshots of Dorian's life, working out my headcanons and working in details, both from the game and from the World of Thedas, vol. 2. I'm juggling a number of projects, so updates may be a little sporadic.

“Time for bed,” Nurse said.

Dorian wiggled his toes and frowned. “But I’m not done with my book yet.” That wasn’t quite true. He could read the book by himself—or most of it—and he’d done that twice, looking at all the pictures of Archon Darinius and his adventures, too. But he wasn’t done reading it for the _third_ time.

“Nonetheless,” Nurse said. “It’s time for little boys to be in bed, even a little Altus.” She reached out and ruffled his hair, and Dorian giggled, squirming away. Nurse never did things like that when his parents were around.

He clutched the book tighter, though. “Where’s Mother and Father? I want to say good night.” Mother and Father didn’t always come say good night, especially since Mother had gotten so big and so tired. She was tired all the time, these days, and Dorian hardly ever saw her.

Nurse’s mouth turned down and she glanced toward the door quickly and tucked a strand of hair behind her pointed ear. “I don’t think they can come tonight, young master.”

“Why not?” Dorian clutched his book harder as Nurse tried to pry it out of his hands.

“Your mother’s not well tonight,” she said, and that was all she would say about it. So Dorian found himself washed up and changed into a nightshirt and tucked into bed, and Nurse let him put the book on the little table by the bed so it wasn’t far away, and she tucked him in and patted him on the head and blew out the candles and took her own candle away.

Dorian lay in the bed in the dark but he didn’t feel sleepy at all. He reached for his book, but he couldn’t see the colored pictures any more. He scowled at the page. Nurse had left the candles, but they were out and Dorian didn’t have anything to light them with. Father could light candles all by himself, Dorian had seen him do it. One day, he’d said, Dorian would be able to do that, too, he just had to _find the fire_ or something.

Dorian stuck his hand out, like he’d seen Father do, but nothing happened. He frowned and scrunched his face up and imagined the candle being lit. After a moment, he opened one eye, but still nothing happened. He scowled and squeezed both eyes shut and tried again. Fire was bright, right, and also hot. When they lit fires in winter, the flames danced and crackled like a living thing. Dorian liked watching the flames, and liked creeping closer and closer to them until his face and hands felt hot, and sometimes he imagined he could reach right in and catch a flame right in his hands, and he imagined it so hard he could almost reach out and touch—

His hand _was_ hot, now, heat that seemed to fill his arm and chest and all of him, and when Dorian opened his eyes, he _had_ a flame in his palm, bright and hot and proper. It set off sparks, even, whizzing through the dark. He leaned over to the light the candle. The wick flickered, and then it lit, and Dorian could let go of the flame in his hand. It was kind of funny to watch it go out, just poof, gone. But Dorian could also see some sparks had caught in the rug by the bed, so he had to scramble out of bed and find the bowl of water for morning washing and throw it on the rug. He wasn’t supposed to get out of bed at night, but at least it put the sparks out, and only the candle was left. Satisfied, Dorian crawled back into bed and picked up his book.

He was still there when Nurse came to check on him, nodding off over the bright pages, the candle still burning merrily.

#

Tonight called for something stronger than wine, Halward Pavus thought, and reached for the bottle of brandy. A stillbirth, tonight, which somehow Aquinea blamed him for, crying and cursing even after her ordeal. He shouldn’t have been surprised; she had a low enough opinion of him on the best of days.

He drank the brandy and frowned. No, he should have more care for what his wife had been through, a painful, messy labor with nothing to show for it, and after all this time. It was being to seem like the Maker’s blessing to have had the one healthy child.

There was a soft rapping on the door of his study. “What is it?” Halward called irritably, in no mood to deal with any further household crisis.

“Your pardon, master,” said the elven servant at the threshold, ducking her head. “Something happened I thought you should now.”

Halward squinted in the bad light until he made out her face. His son’s primary nurse, yes. If young Dorian had somehow taken ill— “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No, sir, not at all.” She kept her head lowered as she came in, at his gesture. “I put out the lights when I put Master Dorian to bed tonight, as usual, but I came back and found him with a lit candle. He said he’d done it himself, master, and I believe him.”

Halward took that in, and a smile slowly spread across his face. “Thank you. Bring the boy to me in the morning. He’ll have his breakfast with me.” He’d have a talk with his son over breakfast, and see if he could make that conjuration again. Promising, promising—most mageborn children didn’t show their talents so early.

“Yes, master,” she said with a curtsey, and scurried off.

Halward finished his brandy in a much better mood. Only the one son, yes, but a bright boy, and showing his talent prodigiously young. Any father could be proud of such an heir. Perhaps the future for House Pavus was bright, after all.


	2. Perfect

“Look at the ducks, Mama!” Dorian pointed out to the pond. There was a whole family of ducks, two big ones, and one, two, three, four, _five_ fuzzy little ones, swimming in a line between their parents. 

“I see them,” Mother said, sounding distant. 

He looked back over his shoulder, and she was still looking at her book, a small one with a blue leather cover. Her long hair was held out of her face by pearl-and-gold combs, and she was frowning at the book. “Look, Mama,” Dorian said, but she didn’t look up. He raced back up the handful of steps to where she sat under the pavilion. “Just like my duck, see?” He held up his toy. It was a wooden duck, painted bright in green and black and gold, just like the father duck out in the water. His duck sat on a base with wheels and had a cord so he could pull it. “See?” he asked again, nudging her elbow. 

“I _see_ , Dorian,” she said, moving her book out of his reach. She looked at the wooden duck and frowned. “Where did you get that?” 

“Nurse gave it to me.” He pointed out to the pond again. “Just like those ducks.” 

“Hmm,” she said. She put a marker made of lace and gold cord in the book and set it aside, next to the bowl of grapes. “You are getting a good deal too old for such playthings, my boy.” 

“Why?” Dorian asked. 

“Or to have a nurse at all,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him. Dorian puzzled at that for a moment. What would he do without Nurse? But his mother said, “Wouldn’t you rather be a big, grown-up boy?” 

“Yes!” he said. He wasn’t all sure what Mother meant, as usual, but if he were grown up, perhaps he could stay up as late as he liked and get the books from the higher shelves in the library and have more than a sip of Father’s glass of wine. 

“That’s my boy,” she said, and patted his shoulder. “Can you manipulate the water? Show me.” 

He knew _manipulate_ , even though it was a big word, and he liked knowing it. _Manipulate_ meant _do things_ to the water, and he clutched his duck in one arm, but stretched out the other, and concentrated. He focused on a spot behind the ducks, so as not to bother them, and thought about the pond in winter, with a thin shell of ice over the surface— 

Cold was hard, cold was much harder than fire, but if he really thought about winter, he could pull cold out of himself, and there, there was just the least bit of ice on the pond. But it was hard to _keep_ it cold, and it melted almost right away. “Sorry,” he said. 

“No, no, that wasn’t bad at all,” Mother said. “Can you do anything else?” 

He could heat water, that was easier, he closed his eyes and imagined a pot getting hotter, water moving faster and faster and bubbling up— 

Dorian opened his eyes again as part of the pond started to roil and bubble, and the father duck flapped his wings and squawked in indignation. Dorian giggled but let the spell go. “I didn’t mean to scare the ducks,” he said, repentant. 

“Mm,” Mother said. “That doesn’t matter.” She patted his hair. “Do you know what will happen when your father comes home from Minrathous?” 

“You’ll have a party?” Dorian asked. 

Mother laughed. “Besides that.” 

“Can I come to the party this time?” Usually he was sent to bed before anything interesting happened, although sometimes he got to eat some of the food. 

“We shall see,” she said. “Guess again.” 

Dorian thought very hard but he couldn’t think of anything else that was at all likely to happen. He frowned and shook his head. 

“Your father will be home in four days, if all goes well,” Mother said, idly stroking his hair. “And he’ll be home for seven, and then he’ll be taking you to school.” 

“To school?” Dorian asked, watching the ducks swim in a lazy circle around the pond. 

“Yes, to the Circle in Carastes. It’s a very good school. Your father went there when he was young, and his father, too.” 

Dorian tried to remember where Carastes was, from the maps he’d seen. “Is it far away?” 

“It’s not so far,” she said. “But you’ll live at the school, and come home between terms.” 

“Will there be other boys there?” Dorian asked. It was dull, sometimes, not having other children in the house. 

“Of course, boys and girls both,” his mother said. “You might be the youngest, though. Most mages don’t find their magic so young as you, Dorian. You’re very special.” 

Dorian nodded at that. Father said so, too, so it must be true. He had told Livia Herathinos that, when she came to Mother’s last party with her parents, and she’d said he was stuck-up and spoiled and boring. He’d said right back that she was spiteful and wretched, and she’d stomped off in a huff. “Is that why I’m going to school?” 

“That’s right,” she said. “You must learn from the very best enchanters to become the best. So to school you will go, and you shall learn oh, so many things.” 

“But mostly magic?” Dorian asked. 

“Exactly right. You shall learn all about magic, elemental magic, force magic, all sorts of magic. It will all help you become the perfect mage.” 

Dorian wanted to bounce a little, but Mother still had her hand on his shoulder. He liked the idea, all the same. Magic was exciting, magic was interesting, he wanted to know all about it, not just how to make fire. Fire was easy. “Will there be books there?” 

“So many books,” she said. “More than we have here.” 

That was quite a lot of books! Father had a whole study full, after all, and Mother had her own bookcase in her rooms, too. “You shall learn languages, too,” she said, “and history and geography and philosophy. And you shall have a staff, and learn to use it. You must be strong and sound and skilled with that, too.” 

Dorian’s eyes went wide. That was very exciting, indeed; Father had never let him touch his staff, saying it was too dangerous, and Dorian had never seen his mother with one of her own. He used a plain piece of wood for exercises, but it wasn’t at all the same. Going to school was sounding better and better. 

“Just like your father’s told you,” Mother finished, and Dorian knew the next part by heart already, so he could say it with her: “Perfect body, perfect mind.”


	3. Expelled

_Dearest honored Father,  
_

_They say I am supposed to write a letter home to explain. And they have left me here locked up in a room with nothing but paper and pen for hours, so I suppose I might as well since there is nothing else to do. It was not my fault, though, and I would have won the duel if the preceptors hadn’t stopped it. I am sure of it.  
_

_The cause of the duel was that Telio said he was a better mage than I, which is ridiculous. I have better marks in four subjects than he does, and he fumbled the demonstration of wards in class the other day. He said it is impossible that I should have better marks, especially in the practical skills, because I am too young, and that I must have cheated. Obviously I could not let that stand! I am sure you understand, father. I said it was not my fault he is such a dunce and that he wastes his time instead of practicing spells. Some of us are just more gifted than others, but he would get better if he spent more time in the practice room instead of currying favor with the older boys. Everyone laughed when I said that, and Cecilia laughed especially, which I think made Telio quite angry. He called me several names which I won’t stoop to repeat, and said he should teach me a lesson for it. As if he could teach me anything, truly. I knew he meant to hunt me down after classes and hit me, though, which is really very uncouth. You know mother says that sort of thing is all right for soporati, but not for Alti like ourselves. So I said if he would not admit that I was right, we should settle our dispute with a proper duel. Everyone got very quiet then, and Fulvia said we were too young, but I said I was not, I knew the formalities very well, and Telio said he knew them, too, so it was agreed upon.  
_

_I had read in a book what one must do and say, so I stated the challenge, and Telio obviously did not know what to say after all, because I had to tell him what was proper. But we inscribed a circle and took up our staves and began. Telio is not nearly as quick as I am. It is true that he has older and has been in classes for one more year, but as I said, he does not practice as much as is wise, and so I was getting the better of him. He is good at ice spells, that is true too, but fire melts ice, and you know fire has always been easy for me, Father. I would definitely have won the duel. Someone must have told the preceptors what we were doing, though. I think it was Fulvia. The preceptors came and forced us to stop, and took our staves. They would not let me go back to my own room, but locked me up alone. I hope they did the same with Telio. I wish the preceptors had not interfered at all. We were only dueling until somebody yielded, and all Telio had to do was admit that he was wrong and I am the better mage, which is the truth. No one was really going to get hurt.  
_

_Preceptor Dravus says I am supposed to apologize for my behavior. I am not sorry, though. I was right, and Telio called me a liar and a cheater and many other things. I upheld the family’s honor, father, and for that I shall not apologize.  
_

_Your son,_

_Dorian_

# 

“This is due to your influence!” 

Dorian could hear the words rise out of the swell and fall of his parents’ voices behind the door of his father’s office. He flinched and slipped away from the door. He was not at all sure he wanted to hear more of what either of his parents had to say. Father had been very short when he came to Carastes to fetch Dorian home. He’d yet to even see Mother since he got home. 

He paced along the hall, feeling a little sorry for himself. It felt strange to be yanked home so suddenly. He hadn’t been home during spring in two years, since he’d first been sent to Carastes, and now here he was, with no school work to do. With nothing to do, really. He wasn’t going back, Father had said, but Father hadn’t said what Dorian _would_ be doing, which gave him an awful sinking feeling. 

It wasn’t fair. He’d been upholding his own honor, the honor of a Pavus, and he’d been _winning_. That wasn’t supposed to end in disgrace. Because it was a disgrace, wasn’t it, to be asked to leave school? Timonus Revelan had been asked to leave a year ago, but that was because he was an utter failure in every one of his classes, and he’d nearly lit a preceptor’s robes on fire when he was pressed to demonstrate a conjuration. Dorian wasn’t such a fool as all that. 

With no end in mind, his feet had led him to his room, but Dorian stopped in the doorway and gave it a sour look. It hardly even felt like his own any more. The coverlet was the same, but the curtains had changed, and the old pictures on the walls had been replaced with some family portraits. Most of his toys had been packed off somewhere. He’d tried to find out where the first time he came home from school, and Mother had said those were childish things and not fit for him any more. Nurse had gone, too, at the same time. Sold, Father had said, and Dorian supposed it made sense; their household didn’t need a child’s nursemaid when there wasn’t a baby in it any more. Nurse would do better with some other family that still had little children, he’d said. 

Dorian wondered if she liked her new charges as well. 

There was another servant charged to see to his needs, an elf man with wood-brown skin and graying dark hair, who did exactly as Dorian asked and never said more than he had to. Dorian supposed that was all right. He didn’t need much help, anyway. They didn’t have servants to help them dress at school. 

With a scowl, he turned away from his room and continued his slow perambulation of the estate. 

Dinner was just himself and Father, and his father’s face looked tired and strained. Dorian looked away, guiltily, and picked at his food, even though the lamb was very good. 

When the servants cleared away their plates and laid out the fruit for dessert—force-grown in a magically heated glasshouse, no doubt, as the leaves were only just greening on the trees outside—Father finally cleared his throat and spoke. “There’s no need to worry,” he said. “I’ve already written to several other Circles. There are others as good as Carastes. Better, even.” 

“Oh,” Dorian said, poking at the melon with a spoon. “I’ll go back to school, then?” 

“Of course,” Father said briskly. “This won’t really be a setback. Not in the long run.” He sounded like he was talking to himself more than Dorian, looking off into the distance. “There will be plenty of opportunity for you to advance yet.” 

“Oh,” Dorian said again. His voice echoed in the dining room. “Good.”


End file.
